


A Sacred Obligation

by skywalkersamidala



Category: I Medici | Medici: Masters of Florence (TV)
Genre: 'what are you?' 'a shitty dad sandwich', Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Universe, Family, Gen, One Shot, francesco being my s3 self insert, putting bread on either side of lorenzo's head
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:41:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24276784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skywalkersamidala/pseuds/skywalkersamidala
Summary: “I just wish I was someone’s favorite,” Piero said, and though to some the sentiment might have sounded petty, it was something Francesco could understand all too well. “Giovanni is Sandro’s and now Giulio is Grandmother’s and the new baby will be Mother and Father’s, and I’m no one’s.”“That’s not true.” Francesco hesitated and then, for the first time since that bloody Sunday, dared to put his arm around Piero’s shoulders like he always used to do. “You’re mine.”
Relationships: Francesco de' Pazzi & Piero di Lorenzo de' Medici, Lorenzo "Il Magnifico" de' Medici & Francesco de' Pazzi
Comments: 18
Kudos: 58





	A Sacred Obligation

**Author's Note:**

> Contains spoilers for season 3!
> 
> I can’t count the number of times I went “[wistful sigh] I wish Francesco was here” during s3, especially the times when Piero needed a better father figure, so this fic is that exact wish fulfillment :’) This AU sticks as closely as possible to canon in order to allow the events of s3 to still happen, but diverges juuuuust enough from canon in order to allow Francesco to be present for these events.
> 
> So! The AU is as follows: everything is the same as in s2 except that a) Francesco never broke up with Lorenzo in 2x05 and he spent the rest of the season as a Medici ally and b) therefore was not involved at all in the conspiracy, which did still happen. c) Lorenzo was a bit more lenient towards Guglielmo, Bianca, and Francesco since the only Pazzi involved was Jacopo and he knows none of them are at all close with him, but he does still exile them for a time. Also d) Francesco never married Novella or had any kids or anything bc I liked the idea of him not having his own family and just really thinking of Piero as a son idk
> 
> We don’t know the name of Bianca and Guglielmo’s daughter in the show, so here I’ve named her Giovanna since that was the name of their irl oldest daughter. In 2x08 she’s still a baby but then in 3x02 she’s magically a whole child even though that episode takes place still in 1478, so for this fic I’ve gone with the timeline of 8ish years passing between Piero and Giovanna’s births in 2x05 and the conspiracy in 2x08, so they’re old enough to be aware of what’s what and to remember Giuliano etc.
> 
> Ok I think that’s it for notes haha I’m sorry for rambling so much and probably overexplaining stuff that you could’ve figured out on your own just from reading the fic, but I wanted to make sure everything was clear before you dove in! I hope you enjoy this!

Lorenzo was studying the map intensely, as if just looking at it would be enough to alter the dire situation before him. Francesco was studying Lorenzo and wondering why he’d even brought him back to Florence if he wasn’t going to listen to any of his advice.

“If you have something to say,” Lorenzo said finally, apparently sensing Francesco’s eyes on him, “say it.”

“Fine, I will,” Francesco replied. “You shouldn’t have had Salviati hanged.”

At last Lorenzo deigned to look at him, his eyes steely. “He killed my brother.”

“My uncle killed your brother,” Francesco said. “Salviati was an accomplice, yes, but technically his hands were clean. He was also an archbishop and you had him publicly executed, overstepping your authority and making an enemy of Sixtus, and now Florence is about to be dragged into a war with the papal states because _you_ couldn’t control your temper.”

“And if it had been Guglielmo? What would you have done?” Lorenzo snapped.

“I would have killed every single person involved with my bare hands,” Francesco said matter-of-factly. “But that’s why it’s you who’s lord of Florence and not me. You have self-control and good judgment. Or at least you used to.”

Lorenzo folded his arms. “Yes, I used to. But then they slaughtered Giuliano like an animal inside God’s house, and for some reason, that clouded my judgment.”

Francesco sighed and tried a gentler approach. “No one faults you for being angry,” he said. “But think of the people of Florence, the people you claim to champion. The people who will suffer the most if this war breaks out. This is not their fight, it’s yours. ‘Together we can prevent a war and save untold lives.’ You told me that once. Listen to your own advice. Set aside your pride and your personal need for vengeance, and make peace with Sixtus. For your people’s sake.”

Lorenzo looked at him for so long that Francesco thought he’d finally gotten through, but then he said, “That’s out of the question,” and returned to studying his map in silence. Francesco heaved another much louder sigh and crossed his arms too, settling back into his chair and stretching his legs out to rest his boots on Lorenzo’s desk and ignoring the annoyed look Lorenzo sent his way.

So it had been between them since Giuliano’s death at Jacopo’s hands. Once the bitterest of rivals and then the truest of friends, they were now neither, floating around some uncertain space in between. The night after that bloody Sunday, Lorenzo had shut himself up with Francesco in his study to interrogate him about his role (or rather lack thereof, as Francesco had insisted until his voice had grown hoarse) in the conspiracy. They’d argued for hours until they were shouting, and they’d shouted until Lorenzo’s voice had cracked and he’d broken down in sobs, and Francesco had fallen silent and stood there awkwardly waiting for him to finish crying, overcome with the unsettling sensation that something fundamental had changed between them and it was no longer his place to comfort Lorenzo when he was hurting.

Exile, Lorenzo had decided the next day, exile for Francesco and Guglielmo and even Bianca and her Pazzi daughter. Francesco knew Lorenzo didn’t truly suspect either him or his brother as having been involved with the conspiracy—they’d hardly spoken to Jacopo in the eight years since breaking with him, when Guglielmo had married Bianca and Francesco had followed him to the Medici family shortly afterwards and never looked back. But appearances had to be kept up, and it wouldn’t do for Lorenzo to make exceptions on the measures against the Pazzi family for those Pazzi who were also Medici.

And although Francesco knew that Lorenzo knew he hadn’t been involved, he also knew that Lorenzo couldn’t look at him without remembering Jacopo’s knife in Giuliano’s back, that the moment the knife had met its target Lorenzo and Francesco’s friendship had been lost forever, that no matter how much time passed they would never be able to go back to the way things had been before. Too much blood had been shed.

And so, exile. Bianca had been upset because she’d just lost her brother and now was being sent away from her family at the time she needed them most. Little Giovanna had been upset about being separated from her cousins, and Guglielmo had been upset because his wife and daughter were both upset.

Francesco, though, he’d been relieved. The Pazzi name, stained by Jacopo’s crimes, was like a curse in Florence now. His family had lost the remainder of its prominence and respect, the bank was in ruins, no Pazzi would be welcome amongst the Priori’s ranks anymore. Francesco had been all too glad for an excuse to run away from it all like a coward and take refuge in a solitary country villa, where he spent his days reading and playing with his niece. It was the most peaceful his existence had ever been.

(At least that’s what he’d told himself in an attempt to ignore the fact that he was going mad with boredom and restlessness and the need to do _something_ that actually mattered.)

But six months after their exile had begun, it was lifted. Lorenzo in his great magnanimity had invited them to return to Florence. Or so he made it seem, but Francesco knew the real reason he’d asked them back was because he was in over his head with Sixtus and knew that Francesco still curried some favor with him as his ex-banker and hoped that Francesco would be able to help him find a way out of this mess.

So Francesco was now doing what he’d always done even when they were friends: doing Lorenzo a favor while pretending that Lorenzo was the one doing _him_ a favor by bestowing the great gift of his trust and generosity upon him. Well, Francesco knew Lorenzo still didn’t fully trust him and probably never would again, but at least he’d allowed him into his home (Palazzo Pazzi had been looted and then seized by new owners) and was permitting him to give him advice, even if he never followed it.

Lorenzo got up to pace around the room, and Francesco watched him for a while. Until the silence was interrupted by the door to the study opening and Piero flying in. “Father!”

Lorenzo turned and caught him in his arms. “You said we would play chess,” Piero said, his tone somewhere between accusatory and hopeful.

“Maybe…” Looking exhausted, Lorenzo turned and looked back at his map. “Tomorrow, how’s that?” he said.

“But I want to play now, and you said—”

“I’ll play with you, Piero,” Francesco said suddenly.

Piero and Lorenzo both turned to look at him in surprise. “Really?” Piero said, looking like he wasn’t sure whether he was allowed to be happy about this. It made Francesco’s heart hurt; for eight years they had been as close as a real father and son rather than only godfather and godson, but the past six months, during which Francesco had been exiled and Piero had been hearing the Pazzi name reviled everywhere he went, had been enough to make Piero nervous and a little wary around him.

The evening the Pazzi had first arrived at Palazzo Medici from exile, Piero had stuck close to Clarice’s leg and looked at Francesco like he was a stranger, and Francesco had had to blink back tears.

“No, Francesco’s very busy. He doesn’t have time to play with you right now,” Lorenzo said, though Francesco got the impression this was directed at him more than Piero. “I will tomorrow, I promise.”

“I have nothing but time. You’re not listening to anything I say anyway, so I might as well go where I’m more useful,” Francesco told him. He got up from his chair, went to the door, and beckoned Piero to follow. “Come on.”

Lorenzo frowned but put Piero down and didn’t stop him from leaving with Francesco. The two of them walked in silence for a minute. “Is Father angry with me?” Piero said in a small voice.

Francesco glanced down at him, startled. “No, of course not.”

“He never plays with me anymore, and when I ask him to come and play he’s always unhappy.”

“It’s not your fault, he’s just busy. Politics and such,” Francesco said. “Florence is in a delicate position right now and it requires all of his attention.”

“Oh.” Piero looked closely at him, then said, “Is he angry with _you?_ Because of—because of Uncle Giuliano?”

Francesco dropped his eyes to the ground. That question was much more difficult to answer. “I don’t know,” he said. “A little, I think. Mostly he’s just angry at the world.”

They arrived in the nursery, where a chessboard was all set up already. Francesco’s heart gave a little twang as he pictured Piero sitting here alone, waiting in vain for Lorenzo to come and join him as he’d promised. Giovanni and Giovanna were playing together—Francesco was glad that the events of the past six months hadn’t come between the three cousins, at least—and Giovanna greeted Francesco enthusiastically, Giovanni only a little less so. He had a much more open, trusting, and forgiving nature than Piero, even if Piero was the one Francesco had been closest with before.

But now, things felt _almost_ like normal as he and Piero took their seats opposite each other at the chessboard. “I’ll be white because white goes first,” Piero announced. “Father says it’s always best to act first before anyone else gets the chance.”

Francesco chuckled a little despite himself; that sounded like Lorenzo. “Sometimes,” he said. “But sometimes it’s wiser to go second. To wait and see how other people act, and then react accordingly.”

Piero furrowed his brow, thinking about this. “That sounds smart too,” he decided. “I’ll be black this time, then.”

“Very well.” Francesco spun the board around so white was on his side. “Then I guess the first move is mine to make.”

* * *

(In the weeks and months and years to come, it became something of a habit for the two of them to play chess nearly every day. While Lorenzo grew increasingly absent from the chessboard, Francesco was there without fail to entertain Piero and teach him all he knew about strategy.

Francesco let him win only once, thinking it might boost his confidence, but he sensed that Piero could tell the victory was unearned and it disappointed him. So for every subsequent match Francesco gave everything he had, and when the day finally came that Piero defeated him by his own wits and merit, seeing the sheer joy and pride on his face was one of Francesco’s happiest memories since the day he’d held him over the baptismal font.)

* * *

Francesco was stomping out of Lorenzo’s study after yet another exasperating failed attempt to make him see reason when he nearly tripped over Piero sitting on the stairs to the courtyard. Piero’s knees were drawn up and his arms wrapped around them, a sulky expression on his face.

“What are you doing out here by yourself?” Francesco asked. “Why aren’t you playing with the others?”

“Because _he’s_ there,” Piero said. “The bastard.”

“Your cousin,” Francesco corrected.

“So they say.”

On the one hand, there was no evidence that Giulio was really Giuliano’s son and Francesco had his doubts too. But on the other hand, when he’d glanced into Giulio’s eyes, just a quick glance, it was like he was looking at his own young self, lost and scared with his parents violently ripped from his world and desperately hoping that the Medici would take him in and love him and care for him.

Francesco hadn’t been so lucky. But Giulio could be, as long as Lorenzo decided to let him stay.

He sat down next to Piero on the step. “Does it truly matter if he’s your cousin by blood or not?” he said. “He’s a scared orphaned boy with nowhere else to go. If your positions were reversed, wouldn’t you hope that he’d be kind to you?”

His tone was mild, but Piero flinched as if he’d yelled, guilt written all over his face. Francesco knew that despite his tendency towards stubbornness and jealousy (tendencies which Francesco shared), he had that strong sense of morality and natural kindness that Clarice had, and that Lorenzo had once had too but had lost along with Giuliano.

“He’s only been here a day and Grandmother already loves him more than me,” Piero said, now more sad than resentful. “Giovanni too, and Sandro. It’s only a matter of time before Mother and Father do too.”

And wasn’t there something so familiar about this for Francesco? Him and Piero with their jealousy and insecurity and prickliness, always watching the golden boy of the family from the shadows and wondering why people didn’t love them as quickly and as easily as they loved Giuliano and Giulio. Lashing out at them in an attempt to stop feeling like second best, or maybe just in an attempt to finally get Lorenzo’s attention.

“I always hated your uncle Giuliano,” Francesco said apropos of nothing, and Piero’s eyes widened. Francesco couldn’t blame him; since Giuliano’s death, it had become practically a sin to speak ill of him. But the man wasn’t nearly so perfect in Francesco’s memories as he seemed to be in everyone else’s.

“But you said you didn’t help kill him,” Piero said.

“And I didn’t. I never wanted him dead. But I didn’t have any love for him either,” Francesco explained. “Or so I thought, until he was gone and I realized…I missed arguing with him.” He gazed unseeingly out at the courtyard, remembering Giuliano’s taunts and insults, remembering the feeling of wanting to strangle him, remembering the _familiarity_ of it all. A rivalry he’d taken a strange sort of comfort in without realizing it until it was gone. Until _he_ was gone.

“For all those years, I thought of him as an enemy,” Francesco continued after a moment. “But now that he’s gone, I’ve realized he was more like—like an annoying younger brother whom I still in some way cared for, even though he always drove me mad. I’ve realized that during all those years when your father was a brother to me, Giuliano was too, in his own way.” He wasn’t sure he could go any farther than that, wasn’t sure he could say that he actually _loved_ Giuliano. But he did miss him, more than he would have ever expected to.

He finally turned back to Piero, who was watching him with quiet curiosity. “Giulio’s not your enemy any more than Giuliano was mine,” Francesco said. “You might not see that now, but you will someday. I only hope the realization won’t come to you too late.”

Piero let out a sigh much too world-weary for someone so small. “I just wish I was someone’s favorite,” he said, and though to some the sentiment might have sounded petty, it was something Francesco could understand all too well. “Giovanni is Sandro’s and now Giulio is Grandmother’s and the new baby will be Mother and Father’s, and I’m no one’s.”

“That’s not true.” Francesco hesitated and then, for the first time since that bloody Sunday, dared to put his arm around Piero’s shoulders like he always used to do. “You’re mine.”

To his surprise and relief, Piero nestled closer into his side, and the expression on his face was full of so much gratitude and love that Francesco felt his throat close up. “I’m glad Father let you come home again,” he said.

Smiling through the tears that were starting to blur his vision, Francesco leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “Me too.”

* * *

**10 Years Later**

It seemed Francesco had a habit of realizing too late how much he cared for people, because he’d never been particularly close with Clarice when she was alive, but now that she was gone, he realized how much colder and emptier Palazzo Medici felt without her quiet but steady presence.

And how much colder and emptier Lorenzo seemed. Francesco had long known that the bright-eyed idealist he’d loved when they were young was never coming back, but still, it hurt to see him like this. Sick and weak and cruel, and angry at God and the world for taking all his loved ones from him. Francesco could hardly recognize any trace of the man he’d once loved in the one standing before him today.

That being said, he didn’t disapprove of the plot to murder Savonarola. Francesco was decidedly not a religious man himself and had no moral qualms about killing a friar, and Savonarola wasn’t high-ranking enough for his death to invoke papal wrath, as had been the case with Salviati. Although if all went well, no one would be able to trace his death back to Lorenzo anyway. Savonarola had the people of Florence under his thrall, and if they ever found out Lorenzo was responsible for his death, that would be the end of the Medici.

Yes, Savonarola was a problem and had to be dealt with, just as Bernardi insisted. One of the few things upon which Francesco could agree with that insufferable man. But it did pain him to see Lorenzo agree to the plan so readily; the Lorenzo he’d once known would never have stood for such a thing, would have preferred to let himself fall from power than resort to murder to keep it. That was something Jacopo would have (and had) done, not Lorenzo.

More and more often lately, Lorenzo had been unsettlingly reminding Francesco of Jacopo.

Thus, when Francesco was on his way to find Guglielmo and saw Maddalena hiding by a doorway and nervously peering into the room where Lorenzo and Piero were talking, Francesco stopped in his tracks and walked over to join her, a feeling of foreboding creeping over him. That had been him more times than he could count, cowering in the doorway watching Jacopo take Guglielmo to task for some misbehavior or other.

“So you betray me to Savonarola,” Lorenzo was saying, his voice deadly soft.

So _that_ was why the assassination attempt had failed. Francesco should have known; he’d seen how visibly uncomfortable Piero was with the plan. And yet, as he looked at Piero’s scared but determined expression, what he felt wasn’t anger at his betrayal, but pride. Francesco wanted Savonarola dead as much as Lorenzo did, but…not at the expense of his godson’s morality and natural kindness. Not at the expense of having to watch another person he loved be lost to plotting and manipulation and lies.

“Some evils can’t be justified,” Piero said, his voice shaking a little, “no matter what good they do.”

Francesco barely had time to think that this was exactly what the Lorenzo he’d once loved would have said— _to do good, we have to be good,_ he’d said that night so very long ago, when Francesco had tried to tell himself that such sentiment was foolishly naïve while deep down admiring Lorenzo’s unwavering idealism—he barely had time to remember that moment when a loud _smack_ was ringing through the room. Lorenzo had slapped Piero, Francesco realized, and now he was grabbing him by the front of his shirt and slamming him into the wall. “You’re no son of mine,” he snarled.

And Francesco forgot that Lorenzo was frail and sickly, he forgot even that he was Lorenzo. To him in that moment it was Jacopo he was looking at, and he would be damned if he let Piero suffer the way he had.

Within seconds, he’d crossed the room and was yanking Lorenzo away from Piero and slamming him against the wall instead. Francesco could hear voices yelling at him to stop—the commotion must have attracted people to the scene—but he paid them no heed as he got right in Lorenzo’s face and glared at him, fury coursing through him.

“If you ever touch him again, I will _kill_ you,” he hissed.

Lorenzo was too weak to throw Francesco off, but he returned his glare no less fiercely for his illness. “This is not your concern. I know it’s difficult for you to get this through your head, but Piero is _my_ son, not yours.”

“Then explain to me why you’ve never acted like it,” Francesco said. “Explain to me why you’ve spent his entire life neglecting him, and now being outright cruel.”

“He’s weak,” Lorenzo spit out. “He’ll never rule Florence, he’s not capable!”

“And is that the sort of father you wish to be? The sort who only loves his children when they’re useful to him? Because that’s the sort of uncle Jacopo was,” Francesco said, the words tumbling out faster than he could stop him even as he felt hands on his arm, trying to pull him away. “You remind me of him, and it makes me sick. It would make Clarice sick too if she could see you now, bullying her son for doing what he felt was right. And Giuliano. Giuliano would be disgusted with the person you’ve become.”

At last Francesco was wrenched away by what he saw out of the corner of his eye was the combined strength of Bianca and Guglielmo. But his attention was still fully on Lorenzo. For a second he thought Lorenzo might hit him too, but then he sank back against the wall, leaning heavily on his cane and looking both furious and utterly broken.

Francesco shook Bianca and Guglielmo off, turned towards Piero, who was pale and shocked and crying a little, and put a firm hand on his shoulder and escorted him out of the room. “Savonarola will die anyway!” Lorenzo yelled after them, sounding almost hysterical.

Giulio had joined a frightened Maddalena by the doorway, but now he moved to follow Francesco and Piero as Maddalena’s nurse ushered her away from the scene. “You did the right thing, Piero,” Giulio said. “I wish I was as brave as you.”

“He’s going to do it anyway,” Piero said, sniffling.

“We’ll persuade him not to,” Giulio said earnestly. “Together.”

“No. You speak to him.” Piero’s voice was angry and hurt at the same time, and he shrugged off Francesco’s hand and stormed down the corridor.

Francesco and Giulio exchanged an anxious glance, and then Giulio turned away and left, presumably to talk to Lorenzo. Francesco hesitated a moment before following Piero.

He found him in his bedroom. “What do you want?” he said, voice quivering, when Francesco opened the door.

Francesco stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. “I wanted to check on you,” he said.

Piero was trying so hard to put on a brave face, but there were tears on his cheeks and his bottom lip was trembling. “I’m fine.”

Francesco was quiet for a minute, weighing his words as Lorenzo’s echoed through his head. _You’re no son of mine._ How deeply that must cut.

“Being a godfather is a sacred obligation,” he said finally. “It’s also a choice. When your parents asked me to be your godfather, I could have said no. In fact, Lorenzo was sure I would, because our renewed friendship was so tentative then and because I…well, I’m terrible with children, frankly. He wanted me to be your godfather, but he doubted whether _I_ would want to accept the responsibility of that sacred obligation.”

Piero sniffled. “Then why did you?”

“At the time when I accepted, it was because I knew the Medici didn’t trust me fully yet and I wanted to prove my loyalty to them. It was also because I was touched and proud that Lorenzo chose me for the role,” Francesco said. “But the moment I held you in my arms for the first time, I forgot all about those reasons. The only thing that mattered was you. It was your parents’ choice to ask me, but it was mine to say yes, and I’ve spent every day for sixteen years being glad I did. We may not share blood, but I think of you as my son. And I’m so proud of the man you’re becoming, and I know your mother would be too.”

At last the façade shattered and Piero started to cry, and without another word, Francesco moved towards him and enveloped him in a tight hug. And Piero clung gratefully to him and wept until he had no tears left.

* * *

Sandro emerged from Lorenzo’s bedroom with red eyes that traveled the room to meet Francesco’s. “Francesco, he wishes to speak to you,” he said.

Francesco nodded, stood from his place sitting amongst the children, and entered the room. There was a funny sort of ache in his chest as he looked at Lorenzo lying in bed, pale and brittle and _old._ He wasn’t an old man at all, only forty-three, but right now he looked like someone who had lived a dozen lifetimes, all of them too long.

They had barely spoken since the incident with Piero, but Francesco suddenly found he no longer had the energy to be angry with Lorenzo, and when Lorenzo met his eyes and gave him a tired smile, he guessed that he felt the same way. So he came closer and knelt down beside the bed.

They were quiet for a minute. Francesco didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t sure he could forgive Lorenzo as easily as Piero had seemed to, but…he was dying. Could Francesco really let his former friend die with the two of them still on bad terms? Couldn’t he put aside the ten years of bitterness and mistrust for a few minutes, for the sake of the ten years before that of warmth and laughter and love?

“Neither of us ever learned how to apologize,” Lorenzo observed at last.

Francesco raised an eyebrow. “I don’t have anything to apologize for.”

“You never do, do you?” Lorenzo said wryly, and Francesco couldn’t help but chuckle at that.

With what looked like a fair amount of effort, Lorenzo reached out and took his hand. Francesco let him, hating how cold and bony his fingers felt. Like a corpse already. He gave Lorenzo’s hand a gentle squeeze and offered him a small smile.

“You were right,” Lorenzo said. “I’ve never been a good father to Piero. Thank God you have been. I think choosing you as his godfather was the best thing I ever did for him.”

Francesco wanted to protest and say that Lorenzo had done plenty of other good things for him, but he couldn’t honestly think of any examples, so he remained silent and let Lorenzo finish. “He’ll need you now, more than ever. They all will,” Lorenzo said. “I know you disapproved of many of my actions these past years, but I also know that you understand that sometimes difficult decisions must be made in politics, in banking. In life. Bianca, Guglielmo, Carlo, all the children—they’re all too kind. It will be up to you to make those difficult decisions when necessary.”

It didn’t even occur to Francesco to be offended, because Lorenzo was right. He wasn’t kind, not the way the rest of them were. He never had been. He wasn’t cruel either, but he wasn’t kind. With Lucrezia and Lorenzo both gone, Francesco would be the only one left in the family who had the stomach to do bad in order to do good, that old Medici philosophy he’d heard a hundred times. And if by shouldering this burden himself he could continue to protect Piero’s morality and natural kindness, then so much the better.

“I will,” he said. “I promise.”

“I trust you to guide them,” Lorenzo said. “You’ve always been honest with me rather than telling me what I wanted to hear. When we were young, you were one of the few who reprimanded me for being too naïve and idealistic, and for being too proud and harsh now that we’re old.”

“Maybe I just like arguing with you,” Francesco joked, and Lorenzo let out a laugh that quickly turned into a cough. Francesco covered their entwined hands with his other one and waited for it to pass.

Lorenzo’s voice was even thinner and drier when he spoke next. “Do you think Giuliano can forgive me?”

Guilt washed over Francesco. “I was angry, I didn’t mean—”

“No, you were right. He would hate to see who I’ve become,” Lorenzo said softly. “Do you think he’ll forgive me?”

“I know he will,” Francesco said. “You’ll be with him again soon enough, and he can tell you that himself.”

Lorenzo smiled slightly and closed his eyes for a moment. “A Medici and a Pazzi, friends for twenty years,” he mused. “Imagine what our grandfathers would have thought.”

Francesco smiled too, and he was overwhelmed with a bittersweet feeling as he realized too late, yet again, how much a dying person meant to him. The pain he’d felt at seeing Lorenzo lose himself these past years, the tears that were burning in his eyes now—it wasn’t just because he had loved him once when they were young.

It was because he loved him still.

“A Medici and a Pazzi,” he echoed. “Who could have imagined it?”


End file.
